Staplers and Other Grand Gestures
by nefret24
Summary: A Two Weeks Notice Fic. A little fluff fic that explores how the stapler endeared itself to Lucy (in addition to both employer and employee endearing themselves to one another ;)!) Please R/R.


Staplers and Other Grand Gestures: A Two Weeks Notice Fic

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the film or their portrayers. This was written solely for my own entertainment and is not for profit. I integrate one of the scenes from the movie but pardon me, my memory is fading so the dialogue is inaccurate. I hope that it is nevertheless enjoyable.

Author's Note: Why was Lucy so attached to that stapler? A filler fluff fic that reveals the author's suspicions on the subject. ;) 

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"How much does a stapler run? Like ten dollars? Here- it's not like there aren't more of them around here! Hey! That's mine! Give me back my stapler!!" ~ Lucy Kelson, to June Carver, _Two Weeks Notice_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Stop. It. Now," I said in my most professional and concurrently nasty voice. I've modeled it after my mother's stern I-Will-Politely-Ask-You-to-Change-Your-Evil-Ways-Voice and I have on occasion been told that it is on par with its predecessor for striking fear into the hearts of those who are unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. 

George Wade is blissfully oblivious to any and all tonal intimations of this request and is continuing to contort his face into a disgusting object as he pantomimes a make-out session, hands moving up and down, lips smacking loudly. 

I change tack and decide to level him a I-Will-Go-Postal-On-You-At-Any-Moment-And-Possibly-Cause-Dismemberment stare (also borrowed from dear old ma). 

Norman, just at my left, snickers at his boss' joke. The stare immediately transfers to him, and it works its magic. His chuckle breaks off and coughing nervously, he averts his eyes to the file folder that is now three inches from his nose. 

What can I say- I've learned from the best. 

George has only just lowered his arms. "Kissee-wissee, Luce?" He puts forward his lips expectantly. If he wasn't sitting on the other side of the conference table, I would have whacked him upside the head. 

"Did I mention that Ansel is over six feet tall and proportionately broad? I can't imagine what he'd do to someone like yourself if he had cause to believe I was in distress," I said, dropping hints as subtle as falling Acme anvils. 

Finally. He chuckles but leans back in his seat, confining his hands to his lap like an obedient schoolboy. Only when threatened with physical violence will he give in. But to give him credit, he does receive my glare and Nasty Voice at least once a day- he must have built up a certain degree of immunity by now. 

"Proportionately broad, didya say?" he tries again, a mischievous grin on his face. 

"Oh, like that's supposed to be funny," I snort derisively. "Can't you least attempt to remain professional?"

"Why, whatever do you mean? I think we're having a perfectly civil, thoroughly interesting conversation," he says, his hand splayed against his chest and his eyelashes flitting up and down, the very portrait of dismay.

I shoot a glance at the door, hoping that the interviewee will appear in its glass frame but alas, no. No interviewee to be seen, since the beginning of the appointment- which was thirty minutes ago. I very conspicuously checked my watch.

"Is something wrong? Do you find my company monotonous?" George remarks, analyzing his fingernails.

"I think she's a no-show, George and speaking of course for myself, there is a lot of work to be done this afternoon"

"Not to mention very important phone calls" he says with a snicker.

"I shouldn't have mentioned it," I mutter, mostly to myself. 

"Really, Lucy, I am ashamed of you. Normally, such a hard worker, so very diligent. Or so you appear. Until you start making long distance personal calls not only on the company's time but their dime as well. Really, you should be lucky I'm so lenient about these things," he sniffs, feigning offense. 

I curl my lip and desperately search for something within reach to throw at his head. Nothing is heavy enough. So he titters to himself and returns to assessing the status of his nails.

Frustrated beyond all measure, I lean forward and press the intercom button. "Stacy, has a Miss" double checked the name on the resume that sits in front of me "Tristan showed up yet?"

"No, Lucy. I'm sorry, there must be some misunderstanding- isn't George with you?"

"Yesssss," I hiss, shooting him a look and pressing very very hard on the intercom button. He remains unperturbed.

"I told him as he was going in that she called- she can't make it, she's ill today. We rescheduled for Thursday."

"Thanks, Stacy." I let go of the intercom button so violently that the console shook. Norman, who had temporarily lowered the file folder, quickly hid behind it again. "George, do you have something you'd like to share with the class?"

"Oh yes, right. Tristan's a no-show. Didn't I mention it?" he looks up, all wide-eyed innocence, his eyes startling blue even under the fluorescent office lights.

"No, it must have slipped your mind. Why, may I ask, then have we been sitting here for the last THIRTY MINUTES!!" I scream, rising and slapping both palms down on the table.

"Having a bit of a chat?"

"Arrrrrgh!" I can no longer articulate. Just mad grunts and raised fists- to such a level am I reduced when I converse with George. I gather my papers together, throwing them half-hazardly into my file, slapping one page on top of another with venom.

"M-missed one," Norman says tenatively, pushing a paper in my direction and quickly removing his hand. As if I would bite him or something. 

"Bit of a watercooler moment? Having a gay ole time? Touch of the standard office fraterization?" he tries again, the corners of his mouth twitching with that mischievious streak of his. 

"Your standard office fraterization is usually horizontal, is it not?" I curl my lip while slamming my folder shut. "George, I have to get those comprehensive reports distributed by the end of the day- you knew that!" 

"My dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Lucy!" he exclaims, popping up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box and stopping me before I reach the door. Hands on both of my shoulders, I'm trapped. No way out. Unless I knock him down- which remains an option. Not a wise option but one that I particularly like at this particular moment in time.

"I have complete confidence in you. You always come out on top, old thing," he says giving me one of those rare, quiet smiles of his. Most of the time he bears his molars and it's enough to give anyone within one hundred paces cavities and contains just enough insolence to border on a smirk. It's the former smile that makes me melt. And he knows it too, damn him. 

"Don't worry- you'll even have plenty of time to talk with Andre the Giant." Smirk. 

Freeing my arms, I swat him over the head and go on my merry way. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Look, Lucy, I - well, I really think we should just be friends, ya know?"

The man graduated top of his class from Berkeley and the best he can come up with to dump me is "let's be friends"? This cannot be happening

"Ansel- I don't understand- why are you doing this? What went wrong? I thought I mean, we had said" 

"No. I said it. You never did. You're too wrapped up in the world, Luce. Whenever I call, all I hear about is this meeting or that client"

"I listen to you talk about your job!" I cry indignantly. 

"It's not the same."

"How? How is it not the same? Because you gallivant around the globe with fish and I merely preserve historical buildings?"

"Not anymore, you don't. You're too involved with all that is corporate, all that is George Wade- you can't embrace life. And certainly not me. I'm sorry, Lucy." He waits a beat as if he's expecting a reply.

How can I reply to that? There is nothing, nothing to say. He's made up his mind and I can't see anymore, my vision is blurring and my face is getting wet. 

"I gotta go- they're telling me we have to ship out now or we won't make it back to the island by nightfall. Goodbye, Lucy and good luck."

He disconnects and I listen to nothing, not removing the headset, not wiping away any of my tears, just sitting there, immobile, back to the glass doors and made of stone.

How dare he. How dare he question me, my goals, my causes. I have never been a corporate lackey, much less George's corporate lackey. I have ciphened his millions out to charities, good charities, great causes. Why am I the traitor, the problem, the instigator of the break-up?

What did I **ever** do to him, except wait, patiently, for a boyfriend who decided that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" was a motto to live by. Apparently, it's not true. 

I hear my door swing open and suddenly I become hyper-aware of my more-disheveled-than-normal appearance. I remain turned away and hold up a finger, like I'm still talking on the phone, while the other hand scrubs hard at my damp cheeks.

"Yes uh-huh. Sure wait, no- it's on a Thursday not a Friday. Right" I state into my headset firmly. I see in the reflection of my computer screen that it's Norman dropping off the copies of the comprehensive reports. I watch as he places it on my desk and slowly makes his way to leave.

"Right. Yes. Uh-huh uh-huh" I continue waiting desperately for him to go. Go. Go dammit. Go NOW. 

Finally. The door swishes shut and he makes his way back to his office. I let out a sigh of relief. Turning slightly in my chair I notice the plug of my headset, blatantly disconnected from any and all electronic devices, lying in plain view of man and God and Norman.

Slick, Lucy. Real slick.

Scrubbing my face with both hands, I rip the headset off and fling it across the room. It makes a very satisfying "whack" as it hits the cream colored wall. I grab the papers he left and groan.

They're not collated. They're not stapled. 

They were **supposed** to be collated. They were **supposed** to be stapled. What are the secretaries DOING if not collating and stapling important things like the comprehensive reports which must go out in less than an hour??

A voice in my head that (suspiciously) has an English accent informs me: "standard office fraterization, perhaps?"

Oh, go to hell, George Wade.

I organize myself. I separate the pile into little piles and place my stapler in front of me. Must get this done. THWACK! Ah, that feels much better.

THWACK! Ansel's head explodes in a blur of spurting arteries and brain tissue.

THWACK! My mother, mid "I-told-you-that-you-shouldn't-have-worked-for-that-man," finds her lips immovable, held together by a tiny piece of metal.

THWACK! I love this stapler.

Suddenly- a face appears in my door. 

"Ah, Lucy, just popping in a sec to ask you what you think of this shirt. I'm playing tennis tonight at that charity what-not and I was wondering, is it too --" 

I can't even bear to look up or comment. I think I saw him carrying what might have been a tennis racket behind my eyelashes and quite frankly, if that's so, I may have some major self-restraining to do. So it's better I pretend it isn't there. It doesn't exist. George is like a normal boss, who comes into the office with a briefcase and a professional business question

Ah, hell, who am I kidding? Can't he get dressed by himself just ONCE?

THWACK! Die, George Wade, Big Business Bastard!

Oooh, wait. It's quiet. I think he's just asked me why I happen to be exuding large quantities of liquid out my eye sockets and loudly sniffling like a deranged watchdog. 

"I think Ansel and I just broke up."

Why the hell did I have to tell the truth? THWACK! Stupid, stupid, stupid Lucy!!

"What? Lucy, what happened?" I look up to see him suddenly all friendly compassion, consideration and sympathy. And for a second I can almost fool myself that it is truly genuine But what, besides the diamonds he flourishes on teenage girls, is genuine about George Wade??

"He said that I don't embrace life," I said, quoting from my earlier conversation and picking up page one of the report. "And how, may I ask," I say, realizing a tone is creeping into my voice, "can I embrace **him** if **he's** never around?"

I pick up the last page and shuffle the papers together into a tight, aligned group and lower the stapler again.

Thwack. 

It didn't go through. I can't do anything- I can't keep a steady boyfriend, I can't have a normal job, I can't please my mother, I can't even friggin' staple six pages together!

THWACK, THWACK, _THWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACK_!

The stapler flies out of my hands.

"Alright- it definitely appears to me that you cannot be left alone with the stapler," he mutters. 

What the hell does he know? Now I have nothing to occupy my hands. My hands are empty. There is nothing to do. I cannot collate if I cannot staple the pages together. I am useless. My fingers now have no use with the very desirable exception of prying that stapler from George's dainty fingers after I have wrapped mine round his neck and squeezed. Hard.

I think I am going to be unprofessional and cry.

"Okay, you know what you need to do?"

Get back my stapler, idiot. "I have no idea," I huff back.

"You need to relax, take the night off, go see him and work it out."

"I don't like boats," I sniff, a passable attempt for dignity if it wasn't for the loudness and the flem and the pathetic-ness of my appearance in general.

"Don't like boats? Really?" He is all astonishment.

"Really!" I reply, mocking his accent. Stupid British- stupid boat loving British.

"I have a boat."

Why am I not surprised by that statement?

"Well, it's a yacht, actually," he says, making himself comfortable in my office chair as if he's settling in for a long cozy chat.

"A yacht. Bully for you," I sniff artfully again, wondering what the hell happened to my kleenex box. Meanwhile, George is turning my stapler round in his hands like its one of those stress balls made out of precious stones. Over and round and back again in an effortless appearing motion that makes me want to snatch it back with all the more fervor. 

"Why don't you like boats?"

"I don't like boats. Does there have to be a reason?" I say disgustedly, rooting around in my desk drawers for some tissues. 

"Yes. You just can't go round saying you hate something without a reason why- it's ridiculous. What would you say if I went round saying I hate hippopotami and when you asked me why, I said no particular reason, I just hate them. How'd you feel?"

"Well, considering that I have no position on hippopotami, I would say you were nuts or drunk, and ignore you for the rest of the day." Ah ha! Travel pack! I wipe my nose as George muddles over my response. 

"Huh. Well, what if you had a pet hippopotamus?"

"Look, George, whatever you're trying to say, will you just say it already? This hippopotamus metaphor is confusing and ridiculous and stupid and will you just give me back my stapler!"

"No, I don't think I will."

"NO?"

"No. I think that it would be very ill-advised for me to give you back a weapon. Besides, you for no apparent reason don't like boats." **HE** sniffs delicately, mockingly. 

"Grrr I can't swim," I mumble to my paper stacks.

"Ah. Well. One doesn't actually have to swim when one goes on a boat, does one? But then, once a landlubber, always a landlubber, eh? All that water out there"

I shiver. I can't help it. I do the same thing when I read Moby Dick. It's unsettling to not have firmness underneath your feet. It makes me queasy just to think about it. 

"Buck up, dear Lucy, I have the perfect way of mending your problem."

"What?" I ask, suspicious.

"You'll see. You're free tonight, I suppose? Well, don't get too enthralled with your Night of Misery, Self-Pity and Chinese Food, we'll be going out."

"Out? Where?"

"Out. See you around 8? Splendid," and he flounced off with my stapler, not waiting for a reply. 

"What about my stapler?" I ask loudly of my empty office.

It does not respond.

I sit in contemplation of my ruined life for a moment and then, after viciously attacking my face with several tissues, I feel normal enough to exit the office in search of a replacement office supply.

"Hey Norman, can I borrow your stapler?" I ask, poking my head into his office, next to mine.

"No."

"Whaddaya mean, no? Don't you have a stapler?" I ask stepping into the office and approaching the desk.

He quickly sweeps up his stapler and clutches it to his chest. "You can't have it. George said"

"AAAUGH!" I stomp out of his office to find Stacy in mine, collecting the comprehensive reports, those that are stapled and those that are not. 

"What are you doing? I'm not finished with those."

"It's okay, Lucy, I can finish them. There's only a few left," she says as she lifts a stack of unstapled papers that is definitely more than "a few."

"They need to be distributed before the end of the day!" I protest, as if that were any reason to stop her from taking away my work.

"I can do it. Norman said he'd help me," she said beginning to make her way to the door.

I merely stand there in shocked befuddlement until the answer hits me.

"Stacy, can I borrow your-"

"No- I need my stapler." Quick as lightning that one. 

"Did George talk to you?"

"Yes- I had no idea," she said shaking her head sympathetically.

"What did he say? Wait," I stopped her before she could speak. "You know, I don't want to know. Just reassure me- it didn't have anything to do with hippopotami, did it?"

"No," she said, raising a confused eyebrow.

"Fine. Great. Fine. Just just get those reports out by the end of the day, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay." I can do this. I can be professional with or without a stapler. I can prove it to George tonight. I will be cool, composed, professionality itself. 

TBC


End file.
